Something Stronger Than Time
by Always Late.Texas Kate
Summary: "But in the end, it was little more than longing, and far less than the fire of Tsarmina's claws." Sometimes, it's the little things. Drabbles, character studies, memories. Martin-centric. Chapter Thirteen: Am That Is- "I- am that is, my sword shall wield for me."
1. Break

**Break**

He decided soon after his recovery he must be allergic to roses. And perhaps his long forgotten mother had sang a song similar to Columbine's once upon a time, in the dark caves of his homeland. Perhaps he had a sister, or a cousin, somewhere in the northlands, whose giggle was sweet as those of the maidens near the infant abbey's new pond.

He liked to imagine himself, just a season out of infancy- _perhaps he looked like little Gonflett, all bright dewy eyes and velvety ears_ \- and sniffling all summer because of the hardy little roses blooming by the cave. And he would play with the infant maiden- _and her eyes were hazel, the clearest hazel-_ until the sun set and Mother would sing them to sleep.

And the daydreams he liked to believe were memories would bring dull throbs of heartache, of loss, and he regretted every new day not telling Gonff his entire life story, whatever it might have been.

But in the end, it was little more than longing, and far less at first than the fire of Tsarmina's claws.

In the end, it wasn't the subtle sweetness of the roses in the garden, nor the clear giggles that drifted across the pond, or even Columbine's singing in the gatehouse's small kitchen on cold winter days when she and Gonff spent the long nights visiting.

It was the wedding ceremony he woke halfway through, and the laughter of the dancing bride rising with the fire's embers.

It hit him late in the night, in a certain hour when his abbey's stones shone silvery-gray in the moonlight and he could just see a shadow sliding, crumbling at the base of the wall.

It was baby Gonflett, new and crying and blind in the trembling arms of his gracious father when Columbine collapsed with exhaustion against the fouled bedsheets, and Martin fought but could not stop himself wondering- _why is that not me?_

When giggles turned to shrieks, and the little mousebabe was tossed a little too hard while wrestling the mole Dibbun… _When Gonff had to restrain him, bodily, when the blood filled his eyes and his paw shot to the sword._

* * *

"Where did you learn that song?"

He held her by the shoulders, his grip vicelike, and the cutting knife fell from her paws.

"Martin?" She tried to release herself, laughing, but the smile turned down when the Champion's grip failed to lessen. "What-"

" _ **The song,"**_ he demanded, and a watchful mousethief entered his peripherals.

"I-I learned it… a long time ago," there was a question in her tone. "When a group of travelers visited Loamhedge." The paws slackened, fell to the warrior's sides limply as a new panic seized him. "Martin, what's the matter?"

They called his name.

He needed air.

And the abbey walls were far too high.

The marbled clouds were fingers of white and pale blue against the deep murk of night, and the phantom shadows were sliding down the walls.

 _And for once, he didn't want to remember._

" _...Look for me at dawning when the earth is asleep._

 _Till each dewdrop is kissed by the day,_

' _Neath the rowan and alder a vigil I'll keep,_

 _Every moment that you are away..."_

* * *

 ** _A/N: Hola, amigos! This fic is set somewhere between Mossflower and Legend of Luke, and the last section after construction of the abbey is completed. I wanted to explore Martin's amnesia and it's effects. Let me know what you think. All reviews are welcome!_**


	2. Stone

_**A/N: So I thought 'Why not?'. And here is another little Martin piece. I'm thinking about doing several of them. Anyone interested?**_

* * *

 **Stone**

There was the rough grit of sandstone against his paws.

 _The stone burned him._

 _How does it feel, warrior? From one fortress to another? To trade gray stone for red?_

 _Red like blood on the sand._

Sweat plastered his tunic to his back. The weight fell unevenly, heavily, the collar close at his throat and smothering him.

 _Remember the days when the lash was heavy at your back, mouse? When its bite stole away your breath? And still a child, you screamed._

Gonff suggested he strip to his trousers, like all the sensible beasts had done. The sun's glare rose with pulses of heat from the red sandstone, and the very breeze cooked the workers where they stood. Martin gritted his teeth and bent to his work, still clothed.

 _Did it feel much different then?_

A break at midday, the workers sheltered in deep shady pockets of the quarry. A mellow-voiced young otter shared a flagon of cool mint water, and a squirrel some bread and cheese.

"'S about time we got a break," the squirrel took a deep swig and passed the flagon on.

"Ain't no rest for the wicked, y'know," and the otter passed the drink into Martin's paws.

"Ha! Thanks, Keyla."

Three sets of eyes fell on him.

 _Your first mistake._

"Keyla? It's Strombul, mate," the otter gave him an uneasy look but offered the mouse warrior a grin.

Martin's breath caught, knuckles whitening.

A paw stretched to touch him, met empty air. Gonff stood, mouth open, but the warrior had gone.


	3. Cherries

**Cherries**

He eyed the steaming dish, a frown pulling the corner of his mouth. Gonff was on his second piece and the pie had only just hit the table. Martin's paw twitched, but didn't move toward the rich dessert.

"Another pie?" He tried to laugh. "You'll have me as fat as Gonff by the middle of the season!"

"Fat?!" The tubby Mousethief feigned offense, dabbing daintily at the cherry filling smeared across his whiskers. "Winter's not as far away as you think, mate! An' what'll you say then, warrior? You skinny beasts'll waste away while us _heavier_ gennelbeasts'll be livin' large!"

Columbine would have none of it.

"Come on, Martin, just one piece?" The pretty mousewife pled, serving the warrior a modest slice. "You can't tell me you've lost your sweet tooth."

The smell alone twisted the warrior's stomach.

" _... might have sent you into a sleep you'd never wake from…"_

The plate clattered in front of him, the pie's latticed top baked a careful golden brown and dusted temptingly with fine sugar. The eyes of his friends rose the hairs on the nape of his neck- he wasn't sure what they thought of his rare scenes, but he'd become quite good at making them.

 _Columbine made it,_ the warrior admonished, steeling himself and gripping the fork as he would his battleblade. _It's been seasons…. Surely…._

He put on a grin- from the look in Columbine's eyes, it was a sorry one- and shoveled great heaps of spiced cherry and tender pastry into his mouth, swallowing before he had the chance to taste the loathsome fruit. The false smile remained doggedly fixed.

"Wonderful," his voice was thick, muffled as the last bite clung to his throat with a will. "As always."

 _...The heavy fragrance of wild cherries… "... A sleep you'd never wake up from…"_

* * *

Gonff found him behind the gatehouse, shaking on all fours and retching. The Mousethief gagged, turned his head away as his friend made a desperate, wet gurgle, and the pie- along with breakfast and lunch- made a reappearance in the grass.

His friend flinched when a light paw came to rest on the heaving shoulder, and he pinned his ears back in shame, eyes closed against his own shaking gasps.

"Y'know mate," red-rimmed, stormy gray eyes rose to meet the Mousethief's own. Gonff's eyes were twinkling. "If y' didn't like cherries, you could have given me your share."

Martin gave a breathless chuckle, shaking his head. He accepted a helping paw, clasped it strongly in thanks, and the Mousethief pulled him closer.

"An' if you really trust us," Gonff's grin had turned grim. "You'll let us shoulder some o' that that's weighing on you. We all have secrets, mate. But you don't have to carry them alone."

With a final chuckle and friendly shove his tubby friend was gone- probably to finish off what he'd started with that pie- and left Martin, guilty and alone, behind the gatehouse.

* * *

 _ **A/N: Italics are taken directly from Martin the Warrior, with the exception of his thoughts. I definitely subscribe to the headcanon that following the cherry tree scene in Martin the Warrior, Martin cannot abide cherries. So here we have a fic.**_

 _ **Also, Faith: You really make my day every time I see a review from you! I'm so glad you're enjoying these little oneshots and I love your enthusiasm. While I love Martin/Rose (OTP for life), I'm a firm believer that her death was necessary for Martin to move on and save Mossflower. BUT I might make an exception, just for you, and get a solid Martin/Rose chapter. It won't be within the next couple of ficlets, I'm sorry to say, because my main concern here is focusing on what Martin is going through (not just with Rose- he lost other friends too, not to mention his family members). But stay tuned, and I might surprise you with something ;)**_

 _ **C'mon guys, I don't bite! Feed your local (or not so local) author!**_

 _ **...but not cherry pie...**_


	4. Shark

"Ooh! It's shark!"

His heart stuttered.

 _The little mouse and his father on the barren coast._

The sea breeze: biting, bitter.

"Yes Gonflet," he took the tiny paw in his own, pressing a thumb to a thin scratch along the palm. He held the mousebabe's wide green gaze carefully in his, speaking slowly over the weight in his chest. "It's very shark. You must be very careful."

 _He was heir to his father's legacy._

The thin drop of blood pooled in his palm... Warm... Warm as the embrace of the mother he didn't remember.

"Martin!"

The warriormouse smiled and stood with his little charge cradled carefully in his shield arm.

"Found him, Columbine," Martin passed the Dibbun off to his mother. He gave the troubled mousewife half a smile and wagged a finger at the rogue. "Ask him what happens when he thinks to raid the kitchen and finds the Friar's serving knives."

Columbine shot the lad a look of consternation, raising him to meet her gaze. "What have I told you about pinching pies, Gonff II?! Just wait till I tell your father...!"

"You mean the Prince of Thieves himself?" Martin called, laughing, at the mousewife's retreating back.

 _Where the Father leads, the Son will follow._

* * *

 ** _A/N: I know it's short, I hope I did it justice._**

 ** _Faith: Thanks always for your reviews! As this is just a collection of oneshots, there won't necessarily be a sequel. And as far as my personal beef with multi-chapter fics go, the gist of it is I have a short attention span and can't stick with a story to save my life. If I get a worthy idea I'll sure try though. Yes, it was Aggril that gave everyone the drugged cherry cordial, and yes I've seen the PBS show. I was a little disappointed in it because it seemed like it was for a younger audience (that's what happens when you're still into Redwall when you're in highschool), but overall it wasn't bad. Last but not least, as far as your Martin/Rose ideas go: if you want something badly enough, you'll often have to write it yourself as others may not do it justice. Maybe I can give you a Martin/Rose oneshot, but by the tone of the ones before it, it may not have the happy ending you so desire. Whether I pull through for you or not, I encourage you to write stories of your own. If you don't already, trust me- it's a lot of fun._**


	5. Mists

**The Dark Forest, Part One: Mists**

The water is warm. Freedom tastes like blood in his mouth, and there is pain, and there is exhaustion, and in the darkness there lurks temptation at least as sweet as wine.

Eternity is warm, and soft on his soul as a lover.

There are gates. Heavy iron bars blacker than the deepest shadow in the night, and cool beneath his paws. They reach far beyond his sight, dizzying to track, into the mists of time.

A face, a voice, she is with him. _And how does he know these shining eyes that mirror his own?_ And she takes him in her paws, and her choking laugh so light and free is brighter than the sun… And, if only for an instant, he can forgive the father that left him on the blustery northern shores, if this angel of a mouse would only hold him tighter.

"Mother… Mother," his own voice is clear, and like a babe he buries his face in her neck and breathes the sweet seabreeze of summer.

She laughs again. She sings, a lullaby, in some ancient tongue long dead. She squeezes him tighter, pulls away to study him- _and my, how my little babe has grown._

But the mists have reclaimed their own.

And he cannot follow.

But he tries, _Fates_ , he tries! Struggles, the fallen warrior, against the cold black bars as the image of his mother fades into obscurity.

He would give his life a thousand times to see her free.

And in the black forest, his scream dies without an echo.

* * *

 _ **A/N: Because no badger warlord or uppity mousemaid is getting between this mommy and her baby. Sorry Rose. First of a series (the first truly connected in this collection).**_

 _ **And Faith: Just gonna shamelessly advertise and say that GMail and Google Docs are my lifeline. Seriously, most important resource. It's freakin' fantabulaaastic and especially useful for school. Just sayin'.**_

 _ **Also, sorry for the very liberal use of the word 'and.' It's one of my favorite words and I like to use it dramatically.**_


	6. Little One

_**A/N: Internet is crap. Voice is gone. Muse fled- probably to Canada. If I have to write this blurb one more time I think I'm gonna scream. Enjoy the fluff, y'all, and pray with me for the return of my internet.**_

* * *

 **Little One**

The noise grated on his nerves. He cast a glance toward the heavy oaken door and picked up his cutting knife again with a frown. The crisp crunch of the vegetables under his blade did nothing to stifle the sound, and a few slices later he nearly severed his paw when the thin wail rose in pitch and cracked piteously.

"Columbine, he's crying," Martin murmured, not for the first time that afternoon.

"I'm not deaf, Martin," smiled the young mousewife, and she took the knife from him and made swift work of a starchy tuber.

"He sounds hungry," the big warrior pouted, flexing his paws uneasily.

"I just fed him, Martin!" Columbine laughed, tossing the sliced goodies into a salad. "You're worse than Gonff!"

She heard him huff, cast about for something to distract himself from the babe's insistent cries. Columbine laid a tender paw on his arm and squeezed.

"He's alright," she soothed. 'He'll drift back to sleep soon enough."

"Maybe he's lonely." Martin's stormy eyes were fixed on the door, a deep frown tugging at his lips.

"Let him cry awhile Martin," the mother told him in a tone that brooked no nonsense. "It'll strengthen his little lungs."

A particularly loud sob had the warriormouse grimacing, and he breathed a heavy sigh.

"I'm going to help Gonff along with that food from Goody," he excused himself brusquely.

Not two minutes after the warrior disappeared, the din from the neighboring room had silenced. Breathing a patient sigh, Columbine wiped her paws on her apron and peaked through the crack of the door.

Martin cradled the baby mouse close, pulling a silly face and leaning against the room's wide windowsill. He pointed out into the early evening, whispering lowly, and there was a sharp giggle echoed by the warrior's deep laugh.

 _Worse than an old mousewife,_ she mused with a small smile.


	7. Little One, Part II

**Little One, Part II**

The babe was tiny- a soft, warm weight in the warrior's arms, and the glassy green eyes were the image of his father. Martin shivered, wiped a stray tear from the little mouse's cheek and shushed and rocked the infant until it hardly whimpered.

"Hush, little thief," the warrior cooed softly, self-consciously, in what he hoped was a gentle voice. "Your Uncle Martin's got y'now."

Gonflet smiled, a snout-splitting smile, and reached a tiny paw to pet the warrior's whiskers.

"That mean old mummy of yours wanted you to cry all night long, she did."

He leaned his hip against the windowsill, watching the early evening settle in the woodlands till the tiny paw caught his eye again. He tilted his head, watched the curious eyes scrunch and the little mouth twist as the paw stretched up, up-

 _Not to the sword!-_

-to trace a deep scar along the warrior's cheek. Something cold and tingling at the edges dropped into Martin's heart, and he caught and held the tiny paw- _the pure, pretty little paw, soft and unmarred and so different than the big, scarred thing that held it._

"A little ghastly, isn't it?" The warrior conceded with a grim smile. "But it's not on your little face, and that's what's important, eh mate?"

He allowed the tiny claws to run the length of the scar, shivered, and shifted the child in his paws. The quizzical look had vanished, and the wide green eyes grew dull and halfway closed as the baby creature's paw drifted, smooth fur to scar and down to fall away from Martin's chin.

The warriormouse hummed absently: half a song that was half a memory of a little warm cave in the cold northlands, of a mousewife- an old one- and a stoic little mousebabe that called every passing beast mother, mother, and whose cries in the night went unbroken.

* * *

 _ **A/N: If my phone cooperates for the next five minutes I'd like to thank the ever present Faith, nebula212255, LS, and the Guest who may or may not be named (yo man, how's it hangin'?) Guest, as to your crossover question, Imma have to say nay. These oneshots are in no particular order and occur throughout Martin's lifetime with little to no connection between them (unless, in the case of this and the Dark Forest piece, I decide to do a couple connected ones).**_

 ** _As far as the Dark Forest business goes, my muse is still at large. If and when it returns, you'll see more of the Dark Forest._**


	8. Breathe

_**A/N: Listen to The High Kings- Red is the Rose while you read this. I dare ya.**_

* * *

 **Breathe**

He heard the hollow beat of his own heart in the stillness of the chamber.

He wished for it to quiet, to slow, _to stop_.

He thought that hearts broke silently, nobly, _silently_ , and noble as the warriormouse.

"He's… He-"

His heart was all he could hear.

Paws sought his, shaking paws damp with the blood of his friend, damp with the tears of their master, and he seized them and pressed them wordlessly to his lips and his whole body crumbled against that of Columbine's before he broke away from her.

" _He ain't breathin'!"_

There was a mad scramble from the doorway- somebeast'd overheard.

"Mother Abbess! Mother Abbess quickly!"

"Martin," Gonff choked, and the seizing hitch of his heart was a savage pounding between his ears.

"Martin, Martin, y' can't leave me like this, mate-"

A weak sigh.

" _Martin!"_

He was sure the very forest trembled- trembled and shook his footpaws from under him so he sagged against the cot, against the body that burned like a forge. Against the body that lay still beneath him.

 _Thump-thump….. Thump-thump…._

 _Thump-thump-thump-thump-thump-_

Two heartbeats then. Two, _two,_ and the whole of his body gave a shiver.

"He's alive," whispered the angel of a mousemaiden as she took his paw. "He lives!"

" _Rose."_

The warrior's eyes were open, opaque, burning.

" _Rose!"_ He caught Columbine by the wrist, heaved himself sharply up- and fell, his grip frailer than an infant's.

The living mice shared a wide look, a pleading look, and Columbine squeezed Gonff's paw before taking Martin's one in both of hers.

"I-I'm here," the maiden's voice caught.

" _I-I-"_

The eyes rolled.

Gonff squeezed Columbine's shoulders, rested his head near hers, nuzzled her tearful face with his own.

" _Never told-"_ the warrior gasped, chest heaving, blood rising behind the narrow eyes, " _never… never…"_

"Tell me now, Martin," Columbine's lip quivered.

She stroked the warrior's head with a tender paw, tamed the wild headfur, smoothed his feverish cheeks, but the dying warrior bucked under her paw, writhed with a dry scream rising in his throat.

" _Badraaaaaaang!"_ He choked, broke down into weak sobs and the bloody red eyes closed. " _Badraaaaang! Tsarminaaa! Stand- stand and… and fight… and…. and Rose…."_

"Sshhhh…. Rose is here, warrior," Gonff soothed, and arm around Columbine and the other paw stretched to rest on the warrior's chest. "Your Rose is here."

But the warrior could see them, faintly. The image of his mousemaid, the crying face of Columbine, they came together and fell apart without his knowing where the one would end and the other would begin. He shook his head. The tears flooded his mouth and nose and choked him, and in his state he hadn't a clue why he was choking and it made him cry all the harder.

" _Sing-Rose,"_ Martin plead, and all his strength could hardly wrap around the paw that held his own. " _Sss- please… plea… Let...I...I love..."_

"Sing, pretty one, sing to him," Gonff's eyes closed tightly. "Sing for me."

She tried. The notes warbled and died.

Germaine entered as a wraith, floated about the head of the bed while the warrior murmured and his friends wept, and she poured a bitter tonic past the cracked lips. She took the young mice in her arms, held them as a mother her children would cradle, and each friend shook in the arms of the other.

"Ssshh now," cooed the Abbess with misty eyes. "Hush, my little children… Our warrior lives. He will live. He will fight his way back to us, if you give him something to fight for."


	9. Snow

**Stone**

His father's prized sword is little more to him now than a glorified walking stick.

He's lost more now than he's ever earned, and the sword and his memories are all that's left to him.

Memories, half-lost, of a little cold cave on the Northern shores; a lonely grandmother, growing older- _never old enough-_ and a lonelier mouselet who couldn't hope to understand; a long-absent father, not worth his title.

Memories of a tyrant slaver, a hated fortress, a daring escape-!

 _Memories_ _of the prettiest rose that ever dared to bloom, to die._

He holds the legacy of the creature that abandoned him: the sword that would never, _could never,_ be worth the blood shed over it; the sword that now grows pitted, knicks the frosted ground in clipped little _schnicks_ that kissed the outside of his ankle at odd intervals.

He isn't sure what drives him. Be it anger, or grief, or grim determination to be where he is not and to not be where he is, he is stumbling now with leaden footpaws and his heart is goading him harshly and his lungs gasp ' _go, go,'_ with each hot breath.

His ears are pinned flat to his skull. His face is stony- perhaps it froze that way: the eyes, tempestuous, wild as a winter gale and colder than the icy realm that imprisoned him; the mouth a firm line, locked in half a snarl against the chill.

He stumbles. The tip of the blade slides along without catching. The snow is cold and nipping through his cloak, but the warrior cannot feel. His paws slip in the sludge tinged a rusty brown, and for once that season it is not the bite of the wind that chills his heart to its core. The opaque eye bores through him, beyond his scars and the frost frozen to his whiskers to that place in his soul where his heart thrums with a warrior's blood. Once upon a time they were hazel. Once upon a time they were a _they,_ and unable to breathe, Martin finds the empty socket of its mate.

He stretches out a paw. The body is stiff and drags heavily through the snow. He cradles it, the hollow husk of a child that must have once laughed, and played, and had a voice - _and had_ _ **two**_ _eyes and a pure, plump little scarless body._ He can't breathe. He closes his eyes but the single ring of dim hazel is burning and he cannot escape it. The body is twisted and unwieldy. It shakes with the warrior's shoulders as his tears fall into its open mouth.

Martin stands, half carrying the frozen carcass, and his vision is blurred but he can see a swell in the snow, another brown stain against the white.

He cannot look at her.

The ground resists his blade, and the graves he's dug are little more than half an arm's depth before exhaustion has him on his knees. He claws at the earth until his paws bleed, and with eyes tightly closed he rolls mother and son together into the shallow divot and heaps the broken earth and snow over them. He feels the burning stare of the hollow sockets.

Duty, respect, lead him to seek a third. Beyond the smears of browning blood, time has erased any sign of struggle. No pawtracks. No skidmarks. No weapons, no valuables, no home: only two broken bodies and their lives poured out to rot.

Shock is grief. Grief is horror. _Horror is anger._

There is no father.

A rush of fury leaves his throat in a guttural scream and he slams his bloody paws into the ice.

 _There is no father._

He tears at the snow, wails like a newborn till his shoulders hitch and he can no more breathe than he can sprout wings and fly.

"… _Protect those weaker than yourself… Stand for good and right… Never let your heart rule your mi-"_

He flung the sword, spinning, as hard as his numbed arms would allow and watched the flashing blur fall to earth some distance away.

" _Come back and take it from me!"_ Martin roared, balling his paws into fists. "Come see what your vengeance has wrought!" He bit his lip till it bled, fighting the tears that coursed and chilled and threatened to freeze to his whiskers. His voice came in a trembling murmur. "Look at them- look at me and say you are guiltless… Tell me that you loved the taste of blood more than your only son..." _Loved the tang of it, as I once did._

" _And never let another creature take this sword from you, not as long as you live."_

The moment left a sterile void clawing about his heart- cold, almost numb, in the absence of something familiar to him, something bound to him by blood and wrought with a warrior's will. He sought the sword. The snow was unforgiving, bit his paws and knees, but the sword was a solid weight to lean upon.

Martin knelt before the shallow grave.

"I am the son of Luke. I am Martin, Son of Luke the Warrior. I am _Martin, Son of Luke, and I will not make my father's mistake."_

* * *

 ** _A/N: Eternal thanks to y'all out there reading. Hope your lives are going well and you're having a good start to your new year. Drop me a line if you like- tell me what you like or don't like, tell me something you'd like to see, I'll see what can be done about it. Till next time, folks- take care!_**


	10. Touch

Spring's first morning kissed him with tender mercy. His arms, so tight about himself, unwound slowly with the sun that peered down the narrow window. The little warrior gazed blankly at the strip of broken sunlight smiling on the far wall. It beckoned him.

The warmth was like a hug from the Good Mother herself. Martin coughed, pursed his lips.

"G-good morning," he tested his voice. It cracked thinly, and he started at the sound of it. "Good morning."

He offered a smile to the little window. The last traces of his voice died in the air, and again he sat alone. Martin cast a sidelong glance to the heavy door and stood on trembling legs.

"I've survived the winter, cat!" He prayed for strength and leant his weight against the grimy wall. There was silence. "What'll you take from me now?"

Fifteen paces. Fifteen more.

The silence weighed as it had never before. He lingered in the sun when he came to it, relished in its touch.

And when his footsteps echoed dimly to the lonely clank of the broken sword at his neck, he liked to pretend they were the following paws of a companion. And when his breath wheezed thinly and returned to his own ears he imagined the whispers of a friend.

"Bless the seasons, we've survived together."

Martin froze in his track, pricked his ears. The weak voice carried down the hall and died with a whisper. The mouse neared the heavy door and pressed his open palm toward it, closing his eyes with the whisper of a smile touching his lips.

"Your voice is like music, friend. Take care. Per'aps one day we'll meet on the other side of these doors, Gingivere."

Doors down the hall slammed open. The chattering clank of armor demanded silence. Martin's smile lingered.

* * *

The wall leant Martin strength. He could hardly register the silly creature's song for the rush of joy, of relief, that shivered down his spine and threatened to take his legs from under him.

 _In the name of mice! Is this what a friendly voice sounds like?_

A bitter season's solitude rolled from the little warrior's shoulders.

He caught enough of the ditty to reply, and try as he might he couldn't recall the words he'd uttered but that he'd managed to catch himself and offer an introduction. A friendly paw stretched toward him.

 _This is a dream. It must be a dream._

But he grasped the paw, mildly, expected the wraith to shatter like the innumerable imaginings his internment had conjured. _But the paw was warm, and the grip solid, and the smile was so very real-_

Martin's throat tightened.

"Prince of Mousethieves, by the fur!" The Prince's features blurred, and the warrior blinked away the tears as he clung to the stranger's paw. "You could be the King of the Sky, as long as I've got a cellmate to speak to!"

* * *

He'd left more behind than he dared remember: friends whose names would never again pass his lips, memories buried in the barren earth. He hadn't known a friend in more seasons than he cared to count.

 _And now there's two,_ the fur of the back of his neck prickled. _More than two,_ he corrected, smiling at their badger host. Raucous laughter drifted between the walls and through the door to Bella's study. Martin's smile grew. _More than I can count._

Gonff and Din shoved one another from wall to wall, falling into a tumult of playful jabs and grapples. Dinny's strength gave him the upper paw, but the irrepressible mousethief wouldn't be kept down long. The pair rolled bodily into Bella's heavy table.

"Young rips," the badger shook her massive head with the ghost of a smile, shoving the wrestling pair away with a footpaw. She turned smiling eyes to the quiet warrior. "Somebeast ought to teach them some manners."

A beat.

Martin's lips curled in a wicked grin.

A wild weight knocked Dinny solidly about the shoulders.

The study rang with laughter.

* * *

His shoulders drooped low. Raw emotion burned in his throat, in his eyes tightly closed. Numbly, he felt the tears dampen his paws, clenched them tight so that his own claws dug deep into his palms. Log-a-Log and Dinny matched each other snore for snore.

Martin heard only the silence between.

He kept close to them that night, scarcely slept but guarded the dreams of his remaining friends. When sleep came, in short snatches, he'd bolt upright before fully awake. He paced their ledge, breathing hard, leaned close and counted the breaths of his friends till his own settled.

He filled Gonff's place between them.

If either noticed the next morning, the way the warrior's tail rested across Log-a-Log's pulsing wrist, or that the tips of his claws brushed the back of Dinny's neck, neither made comment.

* * *

 _"Don't hang about down there, matey!"_

Martin's heart froze, and breathlessly he blew vile water from his whiskers. The rough vine fell before him limply, and he was up the side of the wall before he could register the feel of it in his paws. The mousethief was alive! Filthy and sodden, _but alive- alive and smiling!_

He took Gonff's paws heartily in both of his own, then spun to help lift the others. Log-a-Log and Dinny shook water from their coats and took up their lost friend in a hug, but it was Martin that lifted him bodily off the sodden floor.

"Yowch," Gonff laughed, wincing. "You've got the grip of a badger- no need to go throwin' a poor thief around, matey!"

Martin felt the reassuring beat of his friend's heart and released him gently.

He guarded the edge of the hollow that opened into Snakefish's prison. He wouldn't lose a friend again.

* * *

 ** _A/N: So how'd you like the little five-for-one? I feel like it's a nice change of pace from all the angst of the last chapter. Also, Martin/Gonff is my brotp. All the way. All the bro-ness. All of it._**


	11. Sunrise

**Sunrise**

Martin's footpaw caught a root hidden by treeshadow, and his walking stick scrabbled against dew-damp grass. He bit his lip. Blood welled and bile rose with white pulses of hellfire that seized him, tightened his paws into fists, and drove his tail to writhe and twist against the earth.

There were soft steps, growing near.

The little warrior tried to calm the ragged whistle of his breath past clenched teeth.

"Here, Warrior," he heard the ghost of a smile in the voice. Something warm, familiar yet deeply alien in an empty haze. "Take my paw."

 _Mother…?_

He spied it, swimming before him. It was cool and frail.

 _Abbess._

Martin bent his weight upon the staff, swaying weakly as the earth roiled and bucked beneath him. He curled his lip against the taste of bile. Germaine's thumb ran gentle circles across his scarred palm- almost soothing, almost distracting from the pain, and he leant into the feeling and allowed an easy dullness to settle in his chest.

"By all rights you should be abed, Martin," the old Abbess chided.

Martin avoided her gaze. He grinned sheepishly, fixing his eyes on the early sunlight that kissed the treetops.

"Is Brockhall getting to be too small for your spirit?"

The grin faded. Something cold traveled down his throat to settle in his heart.

 _Some summer gone. Some other place. Some place too small. Somebeast-_

"I thought-" his voice died abruptly. "I thought some fresh air might be good… See the sunrise."

He watched dawn's fingers wistfully, tracked them through the trees to touch the forest with patches of light and deepen the shadows of the ancient giants. Germaine chuckled dryly.

"Surely you don't mean to wrestle the sun so soon after your battle with the wildcat? Did you expect Mother Earth to hold your walker?"

"There's work to be done. I can't sit about while there are lives to rebuild, Abbess." _There are lives to regain._

"Give it time, Martin."

His ears gave a twitch, and drooped. The proud young creature dipped his head.

Germaine released his paw, traced a healing scar along his cheek and shook her graying head. "Ah, my child, my child." The warrior flinched, but didn't turn away. "The dawn is too young- the few bright glades only cast our Mossflower in deeper shadow. It is luminous, beautiful, but unclear."

She watched the young mouse catch his lip between his teeth. The burden of his spirit was heavy upon them both: seeking, probing for what had been but was no more. Germaine hesitated, eyeing the troubled swordsmouse before draping an arm about his shoulders, careful of the long bitter line of stitches that held him in one ragged piece.

Martin's heart stuttered briefly. Something old and tired and long-lost returned to his soul, and he cradled the frail matron in weak arms. He bent, rested his head on her thin shoulders.

"The sun will climb higher, little warrior," her voice was soft near his ear. "Our friends will rise to greet the day, and we will be with them. There is peace. The wood will grow bright again." Cool paws cradled his face and he was forced to peer into the bright old eyes. "There will still be shadows, Martin: blurred lines and spaces we cannot see. But we have friends to guide us, brave one. We must trust in them."

Martin swallowed hard. A single tear stung the deep clawmarks down his cheek but he smiled and bowed his head to the old mouse's wisdom.

"Yes, Mother."

He kissed her forehead and rose on shaking footpaws, leaning heavily on his walking stick.

"Come." Germaine looped an arm around his. "We'll lean upon one another, and everybeast will think us both strong."

* * *

 _"At sunrise everything is luminous but not clear." ~ Norman Maclean_

* * *

 ** _A/N: Not entirely happy with this one, but I figured if any of you lovelies felt the same way you'd be able to pinpoint what it's missing exactly._**


	12. Green

**Green**

The well-forged arms of Boar the Fighter seemed to be coming together again.

In a locked chest.

Buried- beneath small tapestries, an extra quilt or two from the loving paws of Columbine, and the odd trinket bestowed upon him by various Dibbuns.

Three of them now.

He couldn't bear to look at them. Wouldn't touch them. Couldn't swallow their nearness to him now any more than when they were pressed into his paws.

* * *

 _A surprising gift from the shrews- what use has he for Log-a-Log's dagger?_

 _But he smiles. A gift given in good will mustn't be turned down._

* * *

A gift given of a friend passed on to Dark Forest must certainly be cherished.

* * *

 _And Dinny himself pressed his straight into your paws._

 _There are two now. Only two._

* * *

He felt when Gonflet- _Gonff, Son of Gonff and Columbine,_ he corrected- winced, turning his head away when the chest slammed shut and the lock clinked clearly in the dim room. He left the younger creature to sit there, leaving his chambers in icy silence.

"Martin!" The voice froze him. His body twisted, but the stormy eyes didn't rise to face the creature so like the lost one. "Don't leave us to handle this alone. Don't distance yourself from us."

 _The green eyes flashed full of despair, the paw shaking._

" _No."_

" _Take it, Martin."_

" _ **No."**_

 _The blade clattered against the floor partway between them._

 _Columbine in the doorway, sobbing._

 _The green pommel seemed to twinkle from the stones._

"I… I need time. And space."

"And we'll give it to you," Columbine's paw was warm in his own, and the younger Gonff placed a steady arm about his shoulders. "But promise you won't shy away from us.

 _The green pommel seemed to twinkle from the stones._

"I promise."

He embraced them. Loosely, at first, an arm about each of them and his eyes dully staring through the open door to his bedroom.

 _The green pommel seemed to twinkle from the stones._

And he crushed them in a hug, pressing them close, feeling the pair of heartbeats humming close to his own.


	13. Am That Is

**Am That Is**

Something in the air shifted, the stillness giving way to soft breeze that tickled the old warrior's whiskers. Narrowed eyes only half awake drifted corner to dark corner to fall upon the window. Thin curtains swayed listlessly. Night breezes swung aloft from sleeping Mossflower.

He hadn't left the window open.

Pale moonbeams stretched languidly across the floor- stretched, danced, fell to play upon the heavy, locked chest. A gleam. The dagger. Martin staggered to his paws, the pain that comes with age dulled by sleep and some strange serenity.

The dagger was warm and the wood of the chest cool beneath his paws.

The dagger.

The breeze.

A whisper. _A voice._ Martin's paw seized the blade in a grip that cracked his knuckles and set them to throbbing.

He expected some greeting. Some cheeky ditty or remark, some manner of "Well you didn't expect me to stay down for long, did ya matey?"

But, turning, there were only shadows, and the moon in the window. And the whisper.

 _Great Hall. A little mouse, a wide tapestry._

Martin frowned, stretched a paw to touch the unfamiliar cloth. His paw met the cool red sandstone, and nothing more.

"I-"

" _-Am that is."_ The voice breathed.

He shook his head to clear it.

"No, I-"

" _-Am That Is!"_

The one-time warrior narrowed his eyes, pinned his ears.

"Now Gonff, what's the meaning of thi-"

Green eyes sparkled at him, the barest of smiles on the most insubstantial of shadows on the rough-patterned wall. The image vanished.

Martin twisted, seeking.

 _Great Hall. A little mouse. A wide tapestry._

" _Who says that I am dead- knows not at all!"_

The dagger was hot in his paws.

Laughter, faint, echoed round the hall.

He touched a paw to the wall.

 _Great Hall. A wide tapestry. A little mouse, armed._

" _Look for the sword!"_

Gonff pressed a finger to his chest, mouthing the words even as they tumbled from Martin's numb lips.

"I- am that is. My sword shall wield for me."

* * *

"Martin!"

His head shot up, throbbing. Bella of Brockhall's huge, silver-striped face loomed before him. Her eyes were sharp with worry.

"Martin! Whatever happened to your paws?!"

He looked down at them in a daze, roughed by stone and blacked with oil and grime, red with the blood of a multitude of narrow cuts. He flexed them, eyes distant.

Redwall watched her champion weep when spring's cool zephyrs brought a long-gone voice.


End file.
